


Be Mine

by De_Nugis



Series: Be Mine verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-21
Updated: 2011-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean didn't even realize he was doing it. Really. The whole heart thing was totally not a thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a frivolous piece of utter schmoop for [](http://maraceles.livejournal.com/profile)[**maraceles**](http://maraceles.livejournal.com/), who was speculating that maybe Dean kept doing the Be My Valentine heart thing every year without even realizing that he was doing it.

The line at Starbucks is like a mile long, and by the time Dean gets to the counter he’s had plenty of chances to regret not going for the greasy goodness of an Egg McMuffin and some plain, straightforward joe. But Sam’s been moody for days now, moping around and then giving Dean these furtive, expectant looks, snapping at delicate questions about flashbacks, itchy walls, and PMS. Dean’s not above soothing the savage Sam with beverages. As Sam addictions and Winchester drinking go, caramel frappuccinos are pretty harmless.

“What can I get for you?” asks the barista, with a sharpness that suggests it’s not the first time. Dean leaves off contemplating the State of the Sam – seriously, he’s getting, like, second-hand emo here – and orders two of the Egg-McMuffins-only-lots-more-expensive things and a grande Americano. “And a caramel frappuccino for my sister.” At the last minute he throws in a couple of the cookies from the jar on the counter. They have icing. They look like Sam might like them.

It’s the middle of February and fucking freezing. Just walking from Starbucks to the car and then the car to the motel room Dean can feel the heat leaching out of the pricey egg thingies. Sam is on the bed hunched over the laptop, and he doesn’t respond when Dean sets his breakfast and the crapuccino on the nightstand, though he does start to alternate munching and slurping with tapping and scowling. Dean waits a few minutes for him to look up and acknowledge that his breakfast didn’t so much walk here of its own accord as get fetched by his awesome older brother, but no dice. He tosses the bag of cookies at Sam’s head.

“I got you cookies,” he says, “Dickwad.” One of the cookies falls out, and Sam picks it up and looks at it like he’s never seen one before, holding it carefully in the palm of his giant hand. Then he gives Dean that look again, the furtive one, except this time it’s a long, soulful yet furtive stare. Dean raises his eyebrows, _what the fuck_ , and Sam glances away.

“Hey,” he mumbles, “Thanks.” He tucks the bag with the spare cookie away in his pack and begins to eat the one he’s holding in small, careful bites. A crumb of pink icing escapes the corner of his mouth, and Sam’s tongue makes a quick swipe to catch it. Dean turns his attention back to his own breakfast.

“Yeah,” he says, “Whatever. Finish your milk and cookies, Francis, so we can investigate some shit before your naptime.”

They work the case. It’s one of the good ones. Nobody dies and Sam doesn’t stare too long at the fire when they burn the bones. The only casualty is Dean twisting his knee a bit, and Sam maybe straining something with the totally unnecessary looming, hovering, and manhandling that follows. By the next evening they’re two states away.

Sam does the food run -- some shit about how Dean’s knee is sprained and he needs to stay off it, keep it elevated and ice it and maybe tell it stories and sing it songs, blah, blah, blah, more bossy, controlling stuff that Dean tunes out. He takes the ibuprofen Sam left him and flips through the channels. He’s found some pretty decent porn by the time Sam gets back, and he makes sure to groan appreciatively and do some breathy panting just when the door’s opening. Sam’s disgusted look is all he could have hoped.

“Those had better be burgers,” he says, watching Sam unload a whole armload of bags on the table.

“That had better be a gun in your pocket,” Sam retorts. “Yes, I got you your cholesterol feast. And, um, this.” He holds out a little stripey bag.

Dean peers inside it, sees a promising ooze of red filling. Pie. He takes it out. It’s not so much pie as a tart, and it’s friggin’ heart-shaped, with a little heart cutout in the crust so raspberry shows through. It’s the girliest dessert he’s ever seen. Damn cheapskate. Sam went and got the half-priced stuff left over from Valentine’s Day. For his crippled brother.

“You got me the stale leftover Valentine stuff,” he says reproachfully, “You suck, man.”

Sam looks hurt. Weird. Yeah, he’s an emo bitch, but he’s usually not _that_ oversensitive.

“I know it’s a day late,” he says, “But you got me the cookies yesterday. And, well, last year, with the heart. And the year before. With the other heart. I mean, just, well, me too. Or yes. Or something.”

Dean is beginning to wonder if he hit his head in the cemetery as well as screwing up his knee. It doesn’t help that Sam is speaking at three times his usual speed while making one-eighth his usual sense.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he says, “And slow down.”

“I’m talking about that thing you do every year. On Valentine’s Day. With the hearts.”

“Hearts?” says Dean.

Now Sam’s looking like _he_ thinks Dean hit his head.

“You give me a heart,” he says, “Every year. Around Valentine’s Day. This year it was cookies. Heart-shaped cookies with pink icing. Last year it was that creepy ass mannequin thing. And the really gross actual heart the year before that. You can’t possibly not know you’re doing it. You shoved a human heart at me and asked me to be your Valentine.”

“Dude, human heart. It’s basic instinct or something to prank with it. And those cookies were just, like, there, on the counter at Starbucks. I thought you might want a cookie. It wasn’t some weirdo heart thing.”

“But you do it every year,” Sam insists. “What about the year you stole that kelpie heart Bobby’s got in a jar and put it in my duffle?”

Dean chuckles reminiscently.

“That was a full on chick-in-the-horror-flick scream. You could have had a career, Sammy.”

But Sam is too busy looking stricken and backing away like an embarrassed St Bernard to engage with his lost chance of being a starlet in a classic monster movie.

“You really didn’t know you were doing it,” he says, and his voice has kind of shrunk, “You really didn’t mean it.”

“Dude, there is no ‘it’,” says Dean, “I have not been _wooing_ you with Valentine’s hearts. Really. You can set your freaky mind at rest.”

Sam isn’t looking reassured. Seriously, though, Dean’s innocent. He has not been waging some years-long campaign to mess with Sam’s head.

Sam’s managed to back all the way to the door now.

“I, um, I forgot the drinks. I should go back out. I should go back out and get us drinks. And we’ll shove this whole conversation behind the wall, OK?” he says. Or at least, Dean thinks that’s what he says. He’s doing his speed-talking thing again, or more speed-mumbling, really. And he’s out the door, leaving nothing but a gust of damp, frigid air, before Dean can get him to clarify.

“What the fuck was that?” Dean asks the naked lady on the TV. But she’s been riding some guy with a hairy chest and a handlebar moustache the whole time, and she’s really giving it her all, arching back and jiggling and moaning and kind of yelping. She probably didn’t get what Sam was on about either. Dean turns off the TV and absently starts to eat his tart, going back over the conversation in his head.

He’s just bitten the tip off the little cutout heart-within-a-heart when it hits him. Sam gave him a heart. Sam gave him a heart and babbled about Dean asking him to be his Valentine and said _me too_ and _yes_.

Fuck.

Dean surges to his feet in a rush of unfocused adrenaline. He’s got to go after Sam, chase down the car, grab his brother’s jacket and haul him out and explain . . . well, something. Everything. Whatever. Except he forgets his knee. There’s a white-hot torque of pain and it folds up under him and he goes sprawling, face down in front of the door.

Maybe Sam’s right and it is a sprain. Or, you know, some kind of mangling. Because it hurts like a fucking bitch. Dean can’t even get back up. He rests his forehead on the scratchy, sticky, revolting carpet and takes a moment to feel sorry for himself. And maybe a little mad at Sam. He got Dean into this mess, after all, with his gay incest love tart.

Funny thing about lying on the floor, though, is that it gives you perspective. Time to think. Apart from the nauseating pain it’s sort of peaceful. It doesn’t take long for Dean to come up with a very workable plan B: he’ll just lie here. He’ll just lie here pathetically, waiting for Sam to come back through that door and trip over him. Which Sam will inevitably do, because, face it, they’re Winchesters, they're born unlucky. Put a prone body on the rug and they’ll trip over it. And then, when Sam’s down, Dean will grab him and kiss him senseless.

Because yeah, Sam’s delusional about the heart thing. But maybe he’s not wrong.

Dean gets as comfortable as he can and settles in to wait. He’s still holding the rest of the tart. He might as well finish eating it.


End file.
